One Small Step
by bertiebert
Summary: Ivan and Francis have fallen into a love forbidden on every day besides one very special day every four years. They don't enjoy it, but they're living a leap year life.


**_This is a fill for the kink meme prompt: _**_Nation A/Nation B - meeting with a twist._

**_One of the bonuses for the prompt was for the nations to be Russia/France, and since they're adorable I decided they'd be perfect. I got the idea for this fic from reading a similar BBC Sherlock fic. The nations meeting are only able to meet each other on February 29th every four years and can feel each other's presence on that day. They fall into a love forbidden on every day besides every leap day._**

**_Review to tell me your thoughts!_**

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><p><em>February 29, 1984 – 11:58 P.M.<em>

As a French spy infiltrating the Soviet Union, Francis Bonnefoy had to constantly watch his back. But he had to watch his front when he literally ran into a wall of hard muscle.

"_Oof,_ you should watch where you're going, _da?_"

Francis looked up, coming face to chin with a tall Soviet. The man was smiling so Francis thought that he was alright. He was free. The mission hadn't been compromised. But his heart was hammering as he stared into those indigo eyes…

"I apologize," he replied, the accent he'd worked on for months faltering slightly. "I should be going."

Even when the man called after him, Francis physically couldn't turn himself around. His heart ached as he walked away, the city lights showing him the way back to his dingy apartment in the roaring snow.

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><p><em>February 29, 1988 – 6:47 P.M.<em>

Francis tapped his cigarette into the ashtray, brushing his hair out of his face. He pecked away at his typewriter, the moon shining through the dying daylight. It was chilly, but the cool air refreshed him. It helped him write. After two years in the Soviet Union and being discovered in a way that had just brushed violent, Francis retired to a Paris apartment and became a writer.

He was bringing his milk bottles to his front door when he felt the change. His heart was thrashing in his chest and he was sweating uncontrollably. Darting into the kitchen for something to drink, Francis roughly shoved the bottles onto the kitchen counter. They clanked loudly, the sound ringing in Francis's ears like a gunshot. Gripping the counter tightly, Francis was brought to his knees when his heart clenched painfully. He struggled to breathe, gasping and holding his chest.

Then, as soon as it had started, it was over. Francis could breathe and his heart was beating, steady and _alive._

1,700 miles away Ivan Braginski, Soviet mafia boss, was in stable condition in the European Medical Center in Moscow, Russia after being shot twice by a conflicting mafia boss.

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><p><em>February 29, 1992 – 9:32 A.M.<em>

It was at a Parisian café when they finally met for real. Francis was drinking coffee at a table on the street when his heart began to flutter delightedly. He laid eyes on the tall Russian man from almost a decade ago. The man wore a long, tan scarf and a heavy overcoat, but he was so familiar. Just looking at him felt like coming home. Despite his confusion, Francis was drawn over to the Eastern European man as he settled at one of the small tables inside.

"Excuse me, but," Francis paused uncertainly. "Do I know you?"

The Russian looked up and those big indigo eyes widened noticeably. "_Da_. I believe we do know each other."

They talked for the entire morning as if they were old friends, smiling and laughing. Just after one o'clock, Francis realized he needed to meet his publisher and run a multitude of errands.

"Will you meet me for dinner? I have some things to attend to until about ten, but after that I'm free," Francis pleaded, taking Ivan's hand.

"Yes, I'll meet you. Where should we meet?" Ivan smiled, squeezing Francis's thin fingers.

They agreed to meet at a small, homey restaurant not far from Ivan's tiny apartment in Les Halles. Francis's apartment was in Montmartre, in the same bank as Les Halles but a different arrondissement. When they were supposed to meet, Francis was held back at his editor's place and couldn't make it until eleven thirty. A bike and car accident delayed him further. It was a few minutes before midnight when he attempted to make it to the restaurant only to find that he couldn't make it into the first arrondissement. Ivan lived there, just blocks from the restaurant they were supposed to meet at.

Something held Francis back and finally, heartbroken, he turned around to head home.

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><p><em>February 29, 1996 – 1:28 P.M.<em>

The most recent book Francis wrote was a success. A dramatic romance full of overcoming obstacles for the true love you most desired. He was at a market in Les Halles when someone dropped something down the aisle from him. Turning, his heart beating quicker and quicker, he almost collapsed when his heart thundered against his ribcage and he laid eyes on the tall, broad Russian man.

Ivan looked up when Francis kneeled to help him pick up the tomatoes he'd dropped. He gasped softly, unceremoniously shoving the fruits into his bag.

"You didn't come…" Ivan began as they stood.

"I tried, Ivan. I tried so hard, but something was holding me back. I don't know why. I wanted nothing more than to come meet you, I swear," Francis attempted to soothe, knowing exactly what Ivan was going to ask.

He reached out, touching the left side of Ivan's chest. Ivan's heart thrashed against the bones and tissue holding it in place as if it wanted to jump out. Francis idly wondered if Ivan's heart wanted Francis to hold it, keep it safe and never let it go. He wanted that for Ivan, but could never voice it. Ivan jolts forward, holding onto Francis's shoulders and jacket. He presses his hand against the left side of Francis's chest, feeling the way Francis's heart jumped and raged. Supporting the Frenchman as he sagged with the pressure, Ivan realized something.

"What's the date today?"

Francis, bracing his hand on a table, let out a breath. "The twenty-ninth, I believe. It's a leap year."

Ivan's face gave away his realization. "We met four years ago, Francis, on the twenty-ninth. Where were you four years before that?"

"Here, in Paris. I'd come back from a mission just a year or so before that. I was working on my first book," Francis replied after thinking back.

"Four years before that?"

"The Soviet Union, on a mission for my agency…"

"I was in Moscow at the same time. We had to have seen each other and that's what started _this_," Ivan touched Francis's chest again, the smaller man's heart racing almost violently.

"We ran into each other on the street," Francis spit out suddenly, remembering everything all of the sudden.

Indigo eyes, a cold and bitter winter, colorful buildings covered in snow, and a tall man that had made his heart _sing._

"Yes," Ivan sighed, cupping Francis's shoulders. "Yes, I remember."

Their hearts beat as one, easy and calm. They go back to Ivan's apartment, a tiny little thing that makes Francis want to clean and decorate. But they sit and talk over vodka and wine and they tell so many trivial and important things there was almost nothing else left to say. When the clock chimes midnight, Francis leaves, tipsy and unassuming, with Ivan staring after him.

Ivan shuts himself up in his room and cries, finishing off the bottle of vodka before falling into a fitful sleep. He dreamt of clear blue eyes, honey-blond hair, and a sweet, sweet smile that made his heart feel full and alive.

Francis remembers everything the next morning and tries to go see Ivan, but he is unable to cross over the border of the first arrondissement. Staring down the street, Francis can almost imagine the Russian man dashing up the street to sweep him into his arms and never let him go.

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><p><em>February 29, 2000 – 12:01 A.M.<em>

Francis finds that Ivan moved into a much bigger apartment by asking around the arrondissement bordering the first. It was the very beginning of the day when Francis moves to knock on Ivan's townhouse door. But it is thrown open and Ivan dives into Francis's arms, their hearts crying out as they come so close to being one. Ivan reels back only to crush his lips to Francis's and he kisses him with everything he has, everything he's felt over the years.

"I was coming to find you, Francis. I had to see you. _Feel_," Ivan urges, pulling open his coat and shirt and pressing Francis's much smaller hand to his chest.

Ivan's heart roars, frantic and desperate for the one who completed it. Francis nods, taking Ivan's hand to touch it to his own chest. His heart thuds and thuds and feels as if it would burst. When they kiss again, chests pressed together, their hearts trill and leap and _oh…_

They spend the rest of the early morning in Ivan's bed, a big, cushy thing that he'd bought with the large amount of money he got after his father retrieved it from one of their 'clients' back in Russia. Also, with a well-paying job, Ivan could afford more luxurious things and he adored his new lifestyle. He saw then how Communism took away and never truly gave back. Their limbs mingle and curl around one another, drawing each other in and promising so much more.

Napping through the mid-morning, Ivan eventually rose sometime before eleven. He watched Francis for a moment, covering him gently with the sheet and kissing him on the forehead. It was when he was making coffee and attempting to find something for lunch that he felt soft hands stroke across his back.

"I woke up and you weren't there. I was missing you," Francis crooned, still completely naked when Ivan turned around.

Despite everything they had just done together and to one another, Ivan blushed when he saw Francis's entire body open to his greedy scrutinizing. He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging out of it before pulling it on the Frenchman. Francis snuggled into the warm fabric, grinning at him and cuddling into the larger man's arms.

It was late evening and several more rounds of raunchy, passionate sex before either of them broached the unspoken subject. Francis was curled against Ivan's chest, sweat cooling on his pale skin. A few love bites marred his usually perfect complexion, the marks showing up on his throat and shoulders. Ivan boasted a few of his own, mostly on his collarbone and pulse point. But Francis was worried, so much that he couldn't think of initiating anything more until he knew the answer. Their hearts sang together, joyous and lovely and _complete._

"What happens at midnight? What are we going to do?" He wondered tentatively, staring at the freckle on Ivan's chest.

"I don't know. I wish I could tell you, but I just don't know," Ivan muttered delicately, tucking a stray hair behind Francis's ear.

"I don't want to leave and I don't think I can. It hurts too much," Francis fretted, finally gazing up at his lover.

"I know," Ivan hushed, cupping Francis's chin in his palm. "Try and sleep now. It might make things a little bit better."

"What was it like?" Francis asked, voice giving away just how exhausted he was. "Watching me leave?"

"The most painful thing I've ever had to do. Something stopped me from going after you and I wanted nothing more than to draw you back inside and never let you leave. My heart ached for days after and I could hardly think of you without falling to my knees." Ivan stroked his fingers down Francis's back, following the gentle curves and dips.

Blinking slowly, adorable and sleepy, Francis blurted out, "I love you, Ivan."

"I love you, too, Francis," Ivan forced out, throat tight and painful. "Try and sleep. It might hurt less if you don't have to watch it happen."

Despite all of their efforts, both Ivan and Francis had fallen asleep by the time the clock ticked past midnight. They held onto one another tightly, arms only slack in sleep but the possessiveness as translated by the fingers spread out on bare skin.

They woke in the morning, still curled around one another and legs entwined. Francis sat up, hands fluttering over Ivan's form as the Russian awoke as well. He pressed his hands to his mouth, tears forming as Ivan pushed up into a sitting position.

"_Lastochka_, it's alright. We're here, we're together," Ivan cooed, shifting Francis onto his lap to hold him close. "It's March first, and we'll never be apart again. I promise."

Francis rested his head against Ivan's shoulder, one long-fingered hand settling over Ivan's heart to feel the organ beating in perfect time with his own. They were whole and complete and living the life they had always dreamed of.

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><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_Da_ - Yes (Russian)  
><em>Lastochka - <em>Darling, literally "little swallow" (Russian)


End file.
